


Like fire and flame that cannot be painted

by QuillsInk



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, I can literally only write angst, this is very angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 19:15:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29954658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillsInk/pseuds/QuillsInk
Summary: Alexander always stays up late to work, candle glowing late into the night. And no one knows why.One night, as the candle burns bright and the rest of the aides are asleep, he thinks.He thinks of the fire that drives him, which can both create and destroy, and whether it shall warm or burn he does not know - it could be his success, or his downfall.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	Like fire and flame that cannot be painted

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a paraphrase of the quote “Truth and sincerity have a certain distinguishing native lustre about them which cannot be perfectly counterfeited; they are like fire and flame, that cannot be painted.”
> 
> -Journal of a Voyage, 1726, Benjamin Franklin 
> 
> I’ve always found Hamilton the most interesting of all the founding fathers, and I definitely relate to him the most (writes too much, has to be dragged away from work, will fight and argue with literally anyone over anything) so I wanted to do a character study think.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Alexander sighs, staring at his desk. On it is a drill manual in French to be translated into English for the troops to follow. Putting down his quill, he leans back, breathing in and closing his eyes for a moment.

The rest of the room is empty, his comrades and fellow aides-de-camp having retired to bed at what they called a reasonable hour, while he stayed up as usual to work late into the night. The wooden walls seem to mimic the feeling of being in the hollow of a tree trunk - free and within nature and yet trapped and unable to move.

The windowless room is dark, the only source of light being a candle he keeps at his desk, now a burnt-out stub, glowing steadily. It creates a pool of golden light on his desk, highlighting his words.

He is always the last one to retire, always the first one to start. Always the one to churn out an impossible amount of letters and dispatches and translations. Always the one whose quill scratches the loudest and quickest, the stack of papers beside him steadily growing. Always the one who has to be dragged away from his desk, to be told to relax by others. 

Always to be told that it is not needed to work so fast and so much, and always not understood.

Alexander needs to have a legacy. He needs to ensure that his name will have a place in history. He needs to be remembered as someone who built up a country from its foundations, fighting for its freedom and for its happiness. A need for glory burns within him, a fire that drives him.

He can’t be one of those whose names and legacies fade into oblivion after their death, whose work is forgotten. He can’t be one of those names among a list of others, not remembered on his own.

He never communicates this need to anyone, never gives anyone a reason why he works through night and day. And so, like in all other matters, he turns to his pen.

Alexander writes. He writes of this need for a legacy within him which he cannot explain, while looking to the battlefield as a place to earn respect and remembrance. He often dreams of a martyr’s death, of dying on the battlefield, for one’s country. Battlefield glory almost ensured that one would be remembered for their sacrifice, and go down in history in a whirl of glory and gore. 

The candle is almost out now, flickering at the slightest breeze. He gets up and looks at the door leading to the sleeping chambers. 

There are two to a bed, the sleeping quarters not big enough for all the aides to have a room or even a bed to themselves. One of the men is sleeping alone, blonde hair splayed over the pillow, and Alexander looks at him and sighs.

There’s a space next to him, and it was his turn to share a bed with him tonight. But he does not deserve it, a voice within him says. Alexander doesn’t know why it says this, but some part of him agrees and walks away.

He cannot sleep.

The flame finally flickers out, and darkness conquers the room.

Something makes him turn quickly and look in the direction of the bedroom, where his friends sleep peacefully. They are his friends, he reminds himself. And yet, at times, he feels a fiery hatred for them which sometimes fails to stay within him, and causes confused looks and makes people distance themselves from him even more. 

If any of them die, they will be remembered. All of them come from wealthy, connected families, families with titles. They, in the eyes of society, are important.

But he is not. He is an illegitimate child, not even an American. He has no connections. No relatives, no titles, no land, no money, no status. Nothing.

And even though those men are dear to him, some more than others, this hatred still festers in his soul. But, he supposes, one gives what one gets, and all he’s received is hatred, for reasons he cannot control.

They will be remembered as soldiers who went into battle, trumpets blaring, and died in a blaze of honour and glory, but he will not.

He is a nobody, so if he falls now, he will die unremembered, just another soldier. Maybe a line or two about a trusted aide-de-camp, and then nothing. His name will be doomed to fade away, and he will go forgotten.

So he cannot die. Not yet.

And so, he writes. Yes, he writes because it is his job. Yes, he writes for the freedom of his country. But most importantly, he writes so he will be remembered. He writes so that his name will go down in history.

He writes so that the works of his pen will be recorded and remembered, writes so that no one can ignore him, writes so historians will look back on his words and deem them fit to be shared with the world. He writes so that his words will outlive him.

No one else seems to understand his need for a legacy. No one else is driven by a fire within them, by that need to be remembered. Only him.

Because they hadn’t lived through what he had. They hadn’t dealt with the torture of being below everyone else. They hadn’t lived through being hated and being tossed onto the lower rungs of the social ladder because of illegitimacy.

They hadn’t been denied an education because of who their parents were. They haven’t survived sicknesses which killed others. They hadn’t survived natural disasters which tore apart their homelands.

But he had. He survived everything that life threw at him, and rose above it. Through all of it, he wrote. Wrote until everyone around him saw the fire within him. 

Alexander would not let it all be for nothing. He had survived for a reason, though whether it was dumb luck or fate he would never know. And while he lived to build his legacy, while he managed to avoid the spectre of death that seemed to constantly haunt him, he would make sure he would be remembered. 

Alexander sits back down at his desk, and takes a fresh sheet of paper. He takes another candle and lights it, and it dispels the darkness within seconds. Then, he starts to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Feel free to leave constructive criticism in the comments.
> 
> I tried to work in a few hidden (and not so hidden)metaphors, so if you catch them, let me know!
> 
> Also how many of you caught the lams hint heheheheh
> 
> I have a test tomorrow I should probably study...
> 
> OH WELL!


End file.
